


temporary fix

by verity



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dysfunctional Relationships, First Kiss, Holding Hands, Humiliation, M/M, No Underage Sex, Teen Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: Yuri doesn't know exactly how Otabek and Victor started fucking, and he doesn't really care. "Look, it doesn't matter," he said, sometime during that long week between when they had a conversation about Feelings and when they decided to do something about it. They were walking back to Lilia's place from the rink, crossing the long bridge over the Neva. "You don't care about him, do you?"Otabek said, "I've been in love with you forever."





	temporary fix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts).



> acknowledgements & additional content notes about underage content/restricted eating in end notes

Yuri's arms are braced on the kitchen island, which is just high enough to be uncomfortable while he holds a vertical split. Another notification pops up on his phone. Mila is on a boring date at some art museum that she can't resist documenting. This snap is a giant golden dong, softly lit by recessed lighting. The plaque says it’s by someone named Brancusi. Yuri sends back a couple of eggplant emoji and swipes back to the rear camera view.

Victor is on his knees, still in his tracksuit. Otabek has one hand in Victor's hair, the other on Victor's throat, like he can feel his own dick through the cording of Victor's neck. He's taken Otabek all the way down, red lips brushing against the teeth of the zipper of Otabek's undone fly. Victor's eyes are closed; his hands flutter, uncertain of their purchase. 

Yuri switches to the front camera and takes a photo of himself, free leg still raised, backed by the brushed steel hood over Victor's unused stove. His mouth is turned down in a scowl. Mila replies almost immediately, her laughing face shadowed by the mood lighting in the modern art wing. _Victor playing chaperone? (((((((_

Through the rear camera, Yuri watches Otabek yank Victor's head sharply up. Victor sputters. _ugh_ , he replies.

* * *

They don't usually go out to eat because of Yuri's strenuous adherence to his diet plan, but there's a tea house Otabek likes that's within walking distance of Victor's apartment. Yuri allows himself exactly one cup of unsweetened tea and Otabek limits himself to the same without comment. He pays for both of them just as casually. 

The place is nearly full today, but Yuri finds space on one of the cushioned benches on either side of the fireplace. Otabek joins him a moment later, thighs brushing. Yuri watches the server fill their cups from the samovar. She pours strong, thick black tea lightened slightly by water. When Yuri looks over, Otabek is smiling at him. A little curl of the lips.

"What?" Yuri says, frowning.

Otabek tilts his head slightly, then glances away toward the small courtyard outside, dimly lit under overcast sky. "You were focused." The branches of the birch tree at the center are barren, pale against the brick walls. In the summer, the windows of the tea house stay open and the room fills with birdsong.

Something soft butts against Yuri's hand and he looks down to see the owner's dog, a mutt with a glossy coat that terminates in little curls. Yuri scratches underneath her chin and she turns her head in his hand, trying to get closer, before retreating as he skims a long hand along her back. He doesn't usually like dogs, but this one likes him.

The tea arrives. Yuri takes a cautious sip, then sits his tea on the ledge beside the fireplace to cool. Otabek has the thick glass braced between his knees. He always sits like this, back straight but legs slightly parted. Something about that restraint brings a flush to Yuri's cheeks. He can comport himself like a prima for Lilia, can school his body into grace on the ice, but at rest he's a mess with flung limbs and a perpetual slouch.

Briefly, he lets himself slouch into Otabek.

"Drink your tea," Otabek says softly. His voice reverberates through his body, a gentle echo against Yuri's cheek where skin meets leather over Otabek's shoulder. "I have to get you home by curfew."

Yuri groans. "Curfew is such bullshit." The tea is just the safe side of too hot and he drinks it too fast, feeling sweaty and red-faced before the last gulp. Maybe it's the tea, maybe it's the fire. Maybe it's Otabek so close and yet so far away.

They walk back to Victor's so Otabek can get his bike out of the garage, and then they're zipping through the dregs of rush hour traffic, crossing two bridges to get to Lilia's sprawling home. Cool wind whips against Yuri's cheek; the strap of his helmet digs in beneath his chin. Probably it'll leave a mark.

* * *

Yuri only gets to go to Victor's on Friday and Saturday nights, when he has a generous curfew of 9pm. Otabek lives there now, of course, but no one could mistake the place for his: the apartment has all the personality of a luxury furniture catalogue. The same could be said of Victor.

The first time Yuri hooked up his XBox to the massive TV in the den, he had to go find batteries for the remote. He usually plays _Mass Effect_ on Friday; he’s halfway through the second game now. They all have a rest day on Saturday, which means Otabek can play with Victor's ass.

Yuri is stuck in the middle of the Collector Ship mission. "WHAT THE FUCK," he says, jabbing the A button as he tries to take cover from a Praetorian. He fails, and loses his shields. "MOTHERFUCKER."

It's not like Yuri's _good_ at this game, but at the end of a long week, he just wants to chill on Victor's expensive couch and pretend his 300 kilocal of graham crackers and peanut butter is piroshki. Sometimes he lets himself listen, too. Not to Victor. To Otabek.

"You can take more than this," Otabek says flatly. 

"I can't," Victor says. "I _can't_."

Otabek says, "I know you can."

The words are lightning running up Yuri's spine. On the screen, a new wave of Husks and Abominations are swarming. His hands shake on the controller. Jack yells about destroying her enemies, and Yuri switches to his sniper rifle to try and catch enemies as they drop down.

"It's too much." Is Victor crying? Probably. He's such a baby.

Otabek says, "Take it for me."

Someday, Otabek is going to talk like this to Yuri. 

But not yet.

* * *

"You're too much," Mila says, sliding into the seat next to Yuri. They're in the small caf at the rink, Otabek and Yuri at the same table, eating their bland lunches and bumping elbows the way they always do. "I'm going to melt from cuteness."

"I'll melt your face, hag," Yuri says, raising his plastic fork threateningly.

Otabek huffs out a laugh.

Mila beams at them. "Maybe I need to start dating older men," she says, tapping a finger to her lips thoughtfully. For a moment, she looks like Victor. "You know, find a guy who takes me out, treats me, respects me. None of this Netflix on the couch shit."

Yuri glares at Mila. "I'm almost 16, Beka's not _old_."

"We watch Netflix sometimes," Otabek says mildly.

Since it's a Tuesday, they watch Netflix after practice at Lilia's, some cooking show Otabek is into. Otabek lies on the couch and Yuri sprawls on the floor, plowing through the impossibly boring algebra homework from his tutor. He's turned away from the TV, head close enough to the couch that Otabek can run his fingers through Yuri's hair. The numbers on the page blur together.

When the grandfather clock chimes 6pm, Lilia hustles Otabek out the door without ceremony. Then she makes herself a dry martini and switches the TV to the news. It's not like Lilia cares about Yuri, really—she cares about what his body can do.

* * *

Victor is shit at a lot of things, but even Yuri has to admit he's a great choreographer. Not that he'd ever tell Victor that. "I don't see why I get _Agape_ and you get _Eros_ ," he says instead. "Why do we have to have the same music?"

"You can skate this program or not," Victor says. His smile doesn't go all the way up to his eyes.

 _Agape_ is the most challenging routine Yuri's ever skated, in part because he has to be pure and elegant and embody disgusting emotions he'd rather not experience in public. His _agape_ is private. He closes his eyes and tries to skate the Yuri that Otabek sees—the one that Yuri can almost imagine into being.

He's at the top of the podium at Skate Canada.

Victor takes silver at the Trophee de France, despite scoring a personal best on his short program. Skating _Eros_ , he transforms on the ice into a seductive playboy, the enormous sleeves of his poet's shirt fluttering with masculine appeal. Considering the number of times that Yuri has seen him choking on Otabek's dick, the performance is a little surreal. Who is Victor trying to seduce? What game does he think he's playing?

Otabek and Mila bring home gold from the NHK Cup.

* * *

Yuri is bent double in a plow stretch, ass in the air and arms flat on the wood floor. If he looks over, he can see the bottoms of Victor’s feet stretched out over the plush carpet. Victor’s on his knees again, hands clasped behind his back like a little kid who’s been told not to be naughty. He just looks stupid.

"I’m gonna wreck your pretty face," Otabek says, voice ragged. "How do you like that? What do you think they’d say if they all could see? Victor Nikiforov, on his knees, for me?" 

Victor lets out a breathy sigh. "No, no." He doesn’t sound like he is saying _no_ at all. 

Yuri can’t see when Otabek comes, but he can hear the hitch in Otabek’s breath and the fall of Otabek’s come as it splatters. "Look at you," Otabek says. "Just—look at you."

* * *

"Let's take a picture with these." Yuri's Skate Canada gold is a hard weight in his hand. "Somewhere else."

Otabek is still wearing his NHK Cup medal, red ribbon around his neck; Mila's gold swings from her wrist. Victor is talking to the photographer, an older woman. Georgi is taking advantage of the open ice to practice his short program. He still has Nationals ahead of him; he could come back from his poor Grand Prix showing.

They're all going to be on the cover of _Sport-Express_ : the shining lights of the Russian national team, and Otabek.

Otabek doesn't protest, say, _we've been taking pictures for hours_. "For Instagram?"

Yuri shakes his head. "For us."

"Oh," says Otabek. "Okay."

They climb up to the top of the bleachers in the practice rink, high enough that Yuri can bracket Georgi between his fingers. He's working on his step sequence. Otabek wraps his fingers around Yuri's wrist. His fingertips are cool where they come to rest over Yuri's pulse. Yuri shivers. Otabek lets go.

"Here is good," Yuri says, voice wavering as he loops his medal around his neck. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and holds it up high, twisting his body so the rink swings into view behind him. "Turn like—yeah."

Otabek hovers at Yuri's back, tilting his head up toward the camera, chest not quite flush to Yuri's back. Yuri can still feel the heat coming off him. The corners of Otabek's mouth twitch up.

Yuri takes a photo, no flash, slightly blurry; takes another, and another. Freezing the moment in digital to hold the illusion that it will never end. "Put your arm around my shoulder," he says, and Otabek does. He smiles for real, first into the camera and then at Yuri when he turns around into Otabek's arms.

* * *

Yuri has another two hours of practice before he's done for the day, so he leaves his medal in the safe at Yakov's office for the duration. Yakov spends an hour forcing Yuri to refine the entry to his triple axel, then bans Yuri from practicing any more jumps for the day and vanishes from the rinkside. Yuri promptly launches into a quad Salchow, because fuck that.

By the time he gets off the ice, he's sweaty and shaky, the muscles in his thighs shaking. Otabek's already gone home. Yuri forces himself through a cool shower and into clean clothes, even though pulling on jeans feels like a gargantuan task. "You need to eat something," Mila says, going into full big sister mode as soon as she sees him come out of the locker room, so he crams down a protein bar and chugs a bottle of sports drink. Yuri's nearly out the door when he remembers—right.

Yakov is yelling behind the closed door of his office, which isn't unusual; this time of year, he's on the phone with the FFKK a lot. Yuri has learned from past experience to wait until the volume decreases before entering. He's not expecting to hear someone talk back.

"I'm not hurt," Victor says. "I just—"

"What's wrong with you, then? Are you still hung up on that boy?"

Yuri holds his breath.

"Don't act like you don't know who I'm talking about, I was there, Vitya. That boy—"

"It's not like that," Victor says evenly.

"Then what is it like?" Yakov says. Then, softly: "Tell me."

Yuri backs away from the door.

* * *

Friday night, Otabek bends Victor over the arm of one of the accent chairs chair and eats him out for a good fifteen minutes. Yuri can’t help glancing over in between wandering through Omega and buying everything at the shops. He didn’t even realize people did that in real life. His face warms and he turns his attention back to the screen. Chestplates. Right.

When he looks up again, they’re fucking, or at least, Victor is getting fucked. Otabek’s eyes are on Yuri. Gone is the impassive mask Yuri is used to: Otabek’s eyes are wide, lips parted, color high in his cheeks. Yuri can’t look away. His sweatpants are too tight to hide his reaction. He can tell when Otabek notices—Otabek’s hips stutter, hard, driving him deeper into Victor, whose eyes fly open. Otabek tugs on Victor’s hair, pulling Victor’s body into an uncomfortable arch, and slams a final thrust home.

Victor orders Chinese delivery afterward. 

"Try this." Otabek holds up a shrimp for Yuri. He's the only one of them who can really use chopsticks. "I bet you'll like it."

Yuri shakes his head. "I'm okay." He has chicken, broccoli, and half a cup of rice; that's more or less on his meal plan.

Victor is sitting on the couch in his pajamas, trying to keep his dog out of their takeout containers. "Makka, no." His cheeks are still flushed, his hair wet from the shower; he won't make eye contact with Yuri.

* * *

Whatever is wrong with Victor, it's not his _eros_. He's first after the short program at Rostelecom, but Yuri knows as soon as Victor takes the ice for his free skate that the lead won't hold. Last year, his love-forsaken, longing free skate was fresh; this year, it's stale. "Donde Lieta Usci" is even more boring a song than "Stammi Vicino." Victor's costume is all black, a glittering suit cut close to his body—it's not like somebody died.

Yuri doesn't think about anything when he takes the ice. He knows before he comes to a stop, his whole body aching, that he's done it.

JJ stands one from the top, holding silver and not looking particularly happy about it. "I'll see you at the GPF, Yuri!" he says.

Another step lower, Victor says nothing. His eyes are on their audience, obscured by the spotlight. He looks smaller from the top of the podium. His hair is thinning at the crown.

One of the ice girls holds out a bouquet of white roses and Yuri bends down to take them. "From your grandfather!" she shouts. Yuri cradles them in his arm as he straightens. The crowd goes wild.

* * *

"And what do you have to say about your performance?" Otabek says to Victor.

Victor has a gag in, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

Yuri is sitting on the kitchen counter, swiping through Instagram stories. Georgi is visiting his sister and has taken at least ten videos of her insufferable children, Phichit is at the mall, Mila is out at dinner with one of her hockey boyfriends. Yuri’s knee twinges. He lets his legs swing, heels bumping the glossy cabinet fronts.

He doesn’t pretend not to watch tonight.

* * *

"I have all my homework done, I’ve medaled twice this season." Yuri tries to sound firm, like he’s just stating the facts, not begging for a favor. "I want to have my—Otabek over for dinner tomorrow. That’s fair." 

Lilia sighs. "I expect him to be gone when I come home from the opera."

"Yes, ma’am," Yuri says.

Normally, he eats a lot of prepared foods, because it’s easier to keep track of what’s in them. If he cooks, he has to meticulously weigh out protein, vegetables, fruit, dairy—everything. Even though he knows that Otabek’s meal plan must be equally strict, it’s still nervewracking to have him over—to have him _see_.

"I can help cook," Otabek says. "If you don’t mind."

Yuri does mind, but he says, "Okay."

They work well together. Otabek preheats the oven and gets the cubed sweet potatoes roasting, while Yuri dices the onions and slices the mushrooms. He washes the salad greens while Yuri trims the fat off the chicken breasts and weighs them. Yuri adds a splash of Lilia’s open bottle of cabernet to the pan of onions before he adds the chickens.

"This is nice," Otabek says. "I didn’t know you cooked. I’m not very good at it."

Yuri says, "I can teach you."

They’re so close, standing next to each other, alone for once. The kitchen smells sweet from the potatoes. Yuri is hard beneath his jeans and his whole body aches from proximity. Otabek is staring at his mouth. If Otabek laid a hand on him, Yuri would bend like a reed. There’s nothing Yuri wouldn’t do for him.

Otabek steps back. "I’m going to get started on the dishes."

"Um," Yuri says.

"If you want to teach me, I would like that," Otabek says. His voice is rough.

* * *

Two days later, Yuri is playing _Mass Effect_ while Otabek works his fist into Victor’s ass. It takes like an hour. There are a lot of moans and squelching sounds, which Yuri manages to tune out after a while. He sees flashes of yellow out of the corner of his eye every now and then; Otabek is wearing one of Victor’s dishwashing gloves. 

Afterward, Otabek goes and takes a shower. It’s quiet except for the explosions on the screen until Victor starts crying.

Yuri pauses during a cutscene and turns to look at Victor. He’s laying on his side on the couch, one hand thrown over his head and the other wrapped around his chest, soft cock nestled between his legs, a thick trail of dried come over his belly. He’s sobbing like something is broken. Makkachin whines plaintively from behind the closed door to Victor’s bedroom.

"What’s wrong with you?" Yuri says loudly. Victor startles, bringing both arms down to cover himself. As if that made any difference. "What the fuck?"

Victor stares at him silently.

"You have everything you want, so shut the fuck up," Yuri says. "There’s nothing to cry about."

He turns away and unpauses the game, but he’s not really watching. He can seen Victor reflected in the screen of the TV. He’s on his stomach now, face hidden in the curve of his arm. Something about that makes Yuri even angrier. He bites his lip so hard it bleeds.

* * *

"What are you going to do if I beat you in the Grand Prix?" Yuri says.

They're at the tea house again, at a proper table this time. Otabek has tea and Yuri is drinking hot water with lemon. "Be proud?" Otabek says.

Yuri kicks him under the table. "You're not supposed to say that," he says. "You're supposed to say you're going to win."

Otabek hooks Yuri's ankle with his foot. "You said, 'if,' not 'when.'"

"I'm going to win," Yuri says.

"We'll see."

Yuri is quiet for a long moment, toying with his napkin. "You better not go easy on me."

"Yuri," Otabek says, not letting go of Yuri's ankle, "I would never go easy on you."

* * *

Otabek and Yuri have an entire afternoon and another evening together in Barcelona before the short program. "I expect you to be back by eight," Lilia says sternly on the first night, but Yuri has own hotel room and both keys. Otabek rents a bike and they ditch the crowd of Yuri's fangirls for the attractions of the city.

They ride down the coast as far as the Gothic Quarter before Otabek cuts inland and heads into the hills, the shops of Barcelona whizzing past them until they reach the strange sculptures of Park Guell. Otabek leads Yuri all the way up to the top of the pillars, where Barcelona unfolds before them, a collection of rooftops and church spires that spills down the hill into the vivid blue of the Mediterranean. "I never thought I'd be here with you," Otabek says after a few minutes of silence. "From the first time I met you—you seemed so far above me."

"I was a little kid then," Yuri says. "I was _ten_."

Otabek laughs. "Out of my league."

Yuri reaches over to take Otabek's hand. Otabek twines their fingers together, the soft knit of his gloves pressed against Yuri's palm. They’re too far away to see the roll of the sea now, but Yuri can imagine the movement of the waves against the beachhead. He closes his eyes and squeezes Otabek’s hand.

* * *

This time, Otabek is one step beneath Yuri on the podium. JJ, on Yuri's other side, is trying to manage a smile, as if edging Victor out of third place by a point wasn't itself a notable victory. Yuri has a gold medal around his neck for the second Grand Prix Final in a row and it's—unreal.

Getting what he wants is different than wanting it.

"Yuri, your eyeliner is running," Lilia says as soon as Yuri snaps his skate guards on. Obediently, he steps out of the walkway and pauses to let her clean his face with her handkerchief. "Very good. I'm sure your free skate will be even better by Worlds."

"Congratulations, Yuri," Yakov says, patting him on the shoulder.

Yuri doesn't hear anything else after that, because Otabek is stepping off the ice. Otabek, in his free skate costume. His Otabek. Yuri throws his arms around Otabek's neck, careless of the cameras, already saying, "I did it, you did it, we did it—"

Otabek's arms tighten around Yuri's waist. He doesn't say anything, just drags his nose along Yuri's neck for a fleeting moment before he steps away. Yuri can feel the space between them stretching as unbearably as if they were bound at the navel.

"Come," says Yakov. "The press—"

"Fuck the press," Yuri mutters, but he goes.

By the time he's done talking to reporters, he can feel the aches in his body—the knee that needs re-taped, the blisters that have reopened on his ankles. A trainer looks Yuri over after he showers. Afterward, he heads straight to Otabek's room.

" _Yura_ ," Otabek says, dragging him through the door and pulling him close. "I was just going to order room service, I'll get you the menu."

Yuri stops halfway into the room, because he can see the unmade bed in the room, and the person lying on it, still dressed, eyes closed. Victor. 

"Why is _he_ here?" Yuri says.

Otabek's mouth thins. "He came here after," he says softly. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Yuri scowls. He drops down onto the second bed and says, "Order me whatever, I'm going to take a nap."

When he wakes up, it's dark out and the bed next to him is squeaking. His muscles ache and he's still exhausted and Victor is making these soft groans that Yuri wishes he didn't know so well by now. "Be quiet," Otabek hisses, slapping a hand over Victor's mouth. "You'll wake him up."

Victor grunts. The light in the little foyer is on. Yuri can see Victor's legs, bent up from the sheets, and Otabek between them. He's never seen them in a bed like this, just—having sex like normal people. Like they were anybody. Like Yuri isn't even here.

His cock stirs traitorously between his legs.

"STOP," Yuri says as loudly as he can. Otabek's hips stutter. "Stop it, I can hear you, I'm right here! I've been right here the entire time!"

Otabek scrambles off Victor and Yuri can't not look at him—at his hard dick, his flushed body, his guilty face. He kneels before Yuri and says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _zhanym_ —"

The other bed creaks. Victor says, "Yuri..."

"Make him leave," Yuri says to Otabek. "I don't want him here anymore." He rolls over, onto his side, away from them.

After a minute of hushed whispers and rustling fabric, the door squeaks open and slams shut. The mattress dips beneath Yuri. "I'm sorry," Otabek says again, crawling close to Yuri but not touching him. "I didn't meant to upset you."

"It's okay," Yuri says, although it's not. "I don't want you to do stuff with him anymore, though." He swallows around the lump in his throat.

Otabek leans forward to press his lips to Yuri's forehead. "I won't." He kisses Yuri's cheek. "Yuri. You know I—"

"Yeah," Yuri says hastily. "Yeah, I know."

He tucks his head under Otabek's chin and Otabek puts an arm around him. Yuri snuggles close. If it weren't for the faint scent of expensive aftershave, Yuri could almost pretend that Victor was never here at all.

* * *

"Look, it doesn't matter," Yuri said last summer, sometime during that long week between when they had a conversation about Feelings and when they decided to do something about it. They were walking back to Lilia's place from the rink, crossing the long bridge over the Neva. "You don't care about him, do you?"

Otabek said, "I've been in love with you forever." 

How did he sound so calm? Yuri was swept off his feet the day Otabek rode up on his bike to join them at the rink, under Yakov's tutelage once more. He felt frozen in that impossible moment at the height of a jump, spinning over the ice. "I know," Yuri said, throat tight.

"I don't want to do anything before you're ready," Otabek said. The back of his hand brushed against Yuri's. "You're 15. You should get to—"

"Jerk off alone in the shower?" Yuri said.

"Grow up," Otabek said. "I'll wait for you. He's nothing to me."

"Then it doesn't matter what you do with him, does it?"

Otabek slipped his fingers into Yuri's and then they were holding hands, just like that. The air was warm and damp and everything smelled like the sea. Even this closeness was so overwhelming, like a wave cresting on the rocks, battering Yuri with tenderness. He could taste the salt in his mouth.

* * *

Yuri turns sixteen on a Friday between Four Continents and Worlds. Otabek shows up at Lilia’s at the exceedingly respectable hour of 5pm with a cookies-and-cream ice cream cake. "Put it in the freezer for the off-season," he says to Yuri. "Then come with me. We’ve still got most of the night."

"For what?" Yuri says, already heading to the kitchen. 

"For whatever you want," Otabek says. "Within reason."

Victor’s apartment still looks like Victor’s apartment, even though there hasn’t been a Victor in it for weeks. He ended his season after taking fifth at Euros, which he announced via twitter and in-plane wifi somewhere over the Czech Republic, and he came home long enough to get his dog and a suitcase before heading, inexplicably, to Japan. 

It’s a little strange to be here without him. Not that Yuri misses Victor, or anything.

"I brought _Left 4 Dead_ with me," Yuri says as he kicks off his shoes. "I want to play together."

Otabek nods. "Okay. Just so you know, I'm not going to be good—"

"You don't have to be good at this," Yuri says. "Just play with me."

They kill a lot of zombies together. Otabek dies a lot. He _swears_ , too, and joins in when Yuri starts laughing. Somehow Yuri ends up with his head in Otabek's lap after a while. He can't remember the last time he smiled this much. 

"I have one more thing for your birthday," Otabek says, leaning over the back of the couch as Yuri walks into the kitchen to find them some water.

Yuri grabs two glasses off the shelf. "What is it?"

"I'll show you," Otabek says from much closer, and then he reaches around Yuri to brace his palms on the counter. 

Yuri sets down the glasses and turns around slowly. Otabek's not that much bigger than Yuri is, but he's always so careful not to make Yuri feel smaller or crowded. Now he's using every inch of his height and Yuri—likes it. "Are you going to kiss me?" Yuri says. He wants to kick himself as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Otabek says, "If you want me to."

"Then do it," Yuri says, tilting back his head, and Otabek does.

**Author's Note:**

> content notes: there's no underage sex in this fic, but there is voyeurism by an underage character with the full knowledge and participation of the adults involved. extensive depiction of dieting/restricted eating in fulfillment of a balanced athletic meal plan.
> 
> thanks for Ashe, dadvans, and Nomanono for cheerleading, and to 1001cranes for all Mass Effect content herein.
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
